


as the heavens set fire

by finalizer



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (softly but with a lot of feeling) they pretend to hate each other to mask the Emotions, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Internalized Pining, M/M, mentioned past relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-23
Updated: 2016-07-23
Packaged: 2018-07-24 15:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7512773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finalizer/pseuds/finalizer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>To make a unnecessarily long story short: Hamilton ends up having to deal with the aftermath of Jefferson's hangover, and that somehow prompts a genuine conversation that <i>doesn't</i> end in screaming, for a change. Cue the heartfelt confessions.</p><p>And James Madison swears he had nothing to do with any of it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as the heavens set fire

The car slows to a stop and Alexander Hamilton clambers inside.

He’d been sitting on the curb like a common hitchhiker, Madison observes from the driver’s seat, his ratty backpack slung over his shoulder as he’d impatiently tapped his fingers against the concrete.

Hamilton tosses his bag into the leg space and buckles his seatbelt, which is a shock. Madison hadn’t expected him to be mature enough to do so without direct orders.

“How long’s the drive?” Hamilton asks instantly, then remembers to add a hurried: “Right, hi. Thanks for picking me up.”

Because it’s hard to be polite to your political nemesis’ best friend.

Madison’s smile is equally forced, if not suspiciously unreadable. “Good afternoon, Hamilton. Two hours.”

A little background: Hamilton had been waiting on the curb for Madison to pick him up and drive them both to Jefferson’s DC apartment for an unofficial meeting they’d scheduled. Why? Because Hamilton’s car had broken down the previous week and he’d been too busy arguing with literally everyone to go and get it fixed. That, and someone’d stolen his bike.

“Okay. Right. So, do you plan on turning on the radio? I dunno _—_  are you someone who needs to play music in the car? Because, I wanna go over my outline and I don’t actually _mind_ music, but I’d prefer not to have any noise _—_  ?”

“I don’t care. Go ahead.”

Either Hamilton ignores the bored hostility in Madison’s voice or is outright too hyped up on caffeine to notice. He attempts to reach down to his backpack, and is held back by his seatbelt. Irritably, he undoes it, then digs around for a while before pulling out an overstuffed manila folder.

“Seatbelt,” Madison reminds him, when Hamilton actually forgets to do it back up this time.

The next half hour or so is spent in relative silence: Madison driving, and Hamilton furiously scanning through sheet after sheet of paper, fidgeting in his seat like a restless child.

Despite the growing mess of paperwork strewn about Hamilton’s lap, threatening to dangerously slide onto the gear shift, Madison finds himself grateful that at least Hamilton’s not _talking_.

Of course, the tranquility is too good to be true, and the peace is broken when Madison takes a second too long to floor the gas when the light turns green. An impatient commuter behind them blares his horn to get them to move, and Hamilton swivels around in his seat to stare the bastard down.

Instead, he lets out an unintelligible sound of horror.

“ _What the fuck_ ,” he squeaks, then again: “ _What the fuck is this_?”

Hamilton motions behind himself, wide, betrayed eyes flicking between Madison and the backseat.

The backseat, where Thomas Jefferson is slumped with his face pressed up against the window, sunglasses in place, evidently asleep.

“ _What the fuck is he doing here_?”

Madison is unmoved by Hamilton’s reaction _—_  he’d seen it coming from miles away. “Were you not aware that Thomas was going to be attending the meeting that he himself arranged at his own apartment?”

Hamilton fumes, steam nearly rising off his very person. “No, I get that. I mean, what is he doing _here_?”

“He’s been in the car since before you got in, Hamilton. Your observation skills need work.”

Hamilton opens and closes his mouth a few times, then stares straight ahead. He’s silent for the longest amount of time Madison’s seen him that way.

“I _mean_ , why is he in the car, going to his place, if he’s supposed to be in his place _—_  ? Where he _lives_?”

Hamilton shoots a wary look over his shoulder at the sleeping form of Jefferson, concerned that he might startle awake and, perhaps, strangle Hamilton for breathing the same air as him.

“I had to pick his sorry ass up from Monticello. He’s been cooped up there all weekend,” Madison explains, then winces, as if he hadn’t intended to disclose any of that to Hamilton in particular.

Hamilton hums, deep in thought, mulling the new information over in his mind, analyzing all the ways he could use this against Jefferson the next time they went at each other’s throats. _Thomas Jefferson Sleeps In Past Noon, Wears Designer Shades As He Drools Onto His Seatbelt_ , or something along those lines.

Taking a second, longer look back, Hamilton takes in the little details: Jefferson’s hair flattened up against the window, obscuring him from view like a personalized screen. Not that he’d need it, what with the car’s tinted windows. Fucking Republicans.

He’s not drooling, per se, but Hamilton can hear Jefferson’s quiet snuffling as he curls in on himself, wrapping his surprisingly inconspicuous coat tighter. He looks ridiculously innocent; calm and not at all like the sarcastic asshole who’d laughed Hamilton out of Congress just last week. The word _adorable_ is the first to pop into Hamilton’s mind, and he immediately jerks himself out of his reverie.

Jefferson isn’t adorable, fucking _what_.

“What’s wrong with him, anyway?” Hamilton demands, turning back to Madison. He needs a distraction from his inappropriate Jefferson-related thoughts, so obviously, he asks about Jefferson.

“He’s sleeping,” comes the deadpan response.

Hamilton represses the urge to unlock his door and hurl himself into oncoming traffic _—_  he’s pretty sure he despises Jefferson (and, by extension, Madison) with every functioning nerve in his body.

“I see that,” he growls instead. “Why? It’s past two.”

The light ahead turns yellow, and Madison steps on the brake with more force that strictly necessary, sending Hamilton’s conglomeration of papers flying onto the windshield, and the space beneath his seat.

Hamilton forces himself to stay calm. He snaps, “Uncalled for,” and gets to cleaning the mess.

A few moments later, the realization dawns and he snaps back upright, banging the back of his head on the underside of the dashboard.

He ignores the throbbing pain and stares Madison down with the intensity of a madman.

“Oh my god, he’s hungover, isn’t he?”

Madison says nothing.

“That’s why he’s wearing the shades,” Hamilton deduces excitedly, “and why he’s still asleep. _And_ why he’s letting you drive his car. It makes perfect sense now. I’m right, right?”

Madison continues to say nothing.

“I’m so right,” Hamilton announces gleefully, then turns back to stuffing his documents into the now crinkled folder. Nothing ever stays pristine longer than five minutes in his possession.

Of course, he can’t accept Madison’s silence, and pipes up not five minutes later: “Then again, that’s unlike him _—_  day drinking. Or any sort of drinking. I have only ever seen him wasted _once_ in my life, and that was when Trump was announced as a potential Republican candidate. Jefferson never drinks. Oh my god, imagine the scandal when _—_  ”

“Hamilton, shut your mouth before I make you pay for gas.”

That closes the topic pretty effectively.

It’s not until an hour later, when they’re pulling up in front of Jefferson’s luxury apartment (where he spends approximately none of his time _—_  it’s shit compared to Monticello, after all), that the topic is revived.

The car skids to a stop in the designated parking spot and Jefferson lurches awake with a groggy, somewhat nauseous greeting consisting of the single word: “ _Fuck_.”

Hamilton brightens instantly, turning to stare the man down.

“Honey, we’re home,” he half-yells, grinning when Jefferson winces at his loud tone. “Rise and shine, Thomas. Let’s go, uppity-up. Time to seize the day, or whatever’s left of it.”

Madison, who’d previously exited the car to get Jefferson’s bags out of the trunk, menacingly leans in through Hamilton’s window and hands him a small slip of paper.

“The gas receipt. I want it paid in full by next Wednesday,” he says, all too smugly. When Hamilton’s face falls, he adds, “I told you to keep your trap shut.”

He disappears again and Hamilton sits in stunned silence, because Madison just pulled the dirtiest, most cold-hearted stunt he’d ever seen the man attempt.

Hamilton’s snapped out of it by Jefferson’s muddled complaint from the backseat. “There is nothing quite as torturous as waking up to see your face in my car, Alexander.”

His tired voice, and the use of Hamilton’s first name strike a weird feeling in Hamilton’s chest and he rationalizes that a scalding remark is the most logical reply.

“It sure was nice in here until you woke up, _Thomas_.”

Jefferson struggles to pull the shades off his eyes, then grimaces at the unexpected brightness of the afternoon sun. There’s dark circles beneath his reddened eyes, and he looks like shit, worse that Hamilton’s ever seen him.

Apparently he says that bit out loud.

“Thank you. I appreciate your kind words, Mr. Secretary.”

Screwing his eyes shut, Jefferson leans back heavily, before gathering his resolve and  pushing himself up to clamber out of the car. Hamilton stifles a chuckle when he sees Jefferson stumble on the curb.

He stuffs the remainder of his files into his backpack, pockets the unwanted gas receipt, and steps outside as well, slamming the door shut behind himself.

He circles around to the trunk, where Jefferson is muttering something inaudible to Madison, who’s in turn fixing him with an extraordinarily concerned look. What a headline that would be: _James Madison Moonlighting As Secretary Jefferson’s Babysitter_. Not that it’s not already common knowledge.

Hamilton leans against the side of the car, waiting for his host and his host’s nanny to stop bickering and show him inside the damn apartment. He’d had four sodas and a particularly disgusting black coffee before getting in the car, and desperately needs the little boys’ room.

He jumps when Madison suddenly slams the trunk shut and hauls Jefferson’s single bag (wow, a shocker, _how did he fit his whole wardrobe in one bag?)_ over his shoulder.

Jefferson tries to protest, that he can carry it himself, but Madison shoots him down before Hamilton can even come up with a suitable sarcastic comment for the situation. It’s almost impressive.

He does yet another cliché double take when he realizes that beneath his undeniably expensive coat, Jefferson is sporting none other than a sweatpants/t-shirt getup, wrinkled and faded with wear. Hamilton feels like he’s suddenly existing in a particularly mind-fucking episode of the Twilight Zone.

“Okay, hear me out,” he starts, when Jefferson’s sluggish climb up the small set of stairs isn’t even remotely tolerable. “I don’t mean to be rude, or a pushy guest, but I really need to go to the bathroom, if you have one of those in there. So, if you could, perhaps, get to stepping a little bit faster I promise not to do my business on the doormat.”

Jefferson’s condescending laugh at Hamilton’s confession would have been a lot more imposing if he didn’t have to stop in his tracks and grip the hand rail tighter, fighting off an onslaught of dizziness.

Hamilton almost feels sorry for him, but then he remembers it’s Jefferson, and he instead focuses his gaze on Madison’s free hand fumbling with the overlarge ring of keys.

“I’ll help. Do you need me to help? I need to pee,” he reminds them rather eloquently.

The lock clicks, soon after followed by the second one, and Madison is kind enough to let Hamilton know exactly where he and his bladder should sprint to.

“Down the hall to your left, second to last door.”

Hamilton makes a run for it, dropping his bag against the nearest wall and nearly tripping over the decorative rug as he goes.

The relief is short lived, however, because there’s nothing in the world that could have prepared him for Madison’s announcement upon his return to the front hall.

Madison clears his throat, then: “I got a text from the office. I have to get over there immediately.”

Hamilton frowns and Jefferson whips around to face Madison with such force that Hamilton is genuinely shocked that that stupid hair of his doesn’t give him a concussion.

“You what?” Jefferson demands.

Madison lifts his phone up without actually displaying the screen.

“No worries, Thomas, I’ll handle it. But this get-together _—_  we’re gonna have to reschedule for tomorrow, if that’s okay. I wish this work thing could wait, but you know how it gets. You have an extra room for Hamilton to stay the night, right?”

“I what?” Jefferson echoes emptily.

“Sure you do. I’m sorry about this. I’ll see y’all tomorrow.”

With that, Madison turns on his heel and ducks out the door, back into the hallway, and disappears down the corridor. The stopper on the apartment door makes the whole situation that much more anticlimactic, as it leisurely swings shut.

Hamilton finds himself confused by the turn of events, even more so when he glances to the side at Jefferson’s expression of pure outrage, directed at the now closed door.

“I’m guessing he didn’t say anything to you _—_  ” he starts, trailing off when Jefferson redirects his scowl at him. “ _—_  there was no text, was there?”

For all his ranting and yammering, Hamilton knows how to get to the point when there’s a point to be made.

“There was no fucking text,” Jefferson confirms, and heads down the foyer, swaying only slightly. Hamilton follows suit, for lack of a better option.

Right as Hamilton is on the verge of believing they’d gotten lost in the maze of corridors and guest bathrooms, they emerge in the kitchen. Jefferson stands in the center of the room, looking at nothing in particular as he undoubtedly waits for the pounding in his head to subside.

Eventually, he leans against one of the counters and sighs. “Whatever James is doing _—_  whatever he _thinks_ he’s doing _—_  I’m gonna _—_  ”

Jefferson drags his hands across his face and buries them in his hair in exasperation. Hamilton’s thoughts trail off to dangerous territory again, and he wonders if the curls are as soft as they look. He snaps out of it soon enough; _gross_.

“Coffee?” Jefferson offers, out of the blue.

It’s nearing five in the afternoon, the winter sun finishing its shift over the DC sky. Not the best hour for coffee, but Hamilton is immoral when it comes to caffeine, and Jefferson’s hungover, and his espresso contraption looks heavenly _—_  infinitely better than the gas station leakage Hamilton had suffered through in the morning.

“Uh, yeah, sure,” he accepts, then adds an inaudible, choked off, “thanks.”

He’s not sure if he imagines Jefferson’s snort.

The whole sight is disturbing to say the least. With their coats previously discarded in the entranceway, Jefferson stands in sweatpants and sock feet, pouring milk into the foamer. It’s eerily domestic, and a new level of awkward in comparison to their infamous workplace confrontations.

“I’m guessing you don’t wanna take the bus home,” Jefferson drawls on, “not that it wouldn’t be funny, you makin’ this trip up here for nothing. I got _—_  you can stay _—_  I have a room, if you wanna stay.”

Hamilton wonders if the stammering is influenced by the sheer amount of alcohol in Jefferson’s bloodstream. Maybe, maybe not, it’s uncharacteristic and hugely unlike him either way.

Jefferson is still talking. “I don’t know _—_  you wanna work on your paper? Just go the fuck to sleep? Or if you’re hungry I can order something, it’s not _—_  ”

Hamilton, legitimately afraid of the kindness tirade, interrupts Jefferson before he tries to offer him a relaxing back massage.

“Really, just the coffee’s fine,” Hamilton stops him, and it’s weird, that he’s never shut Jefferson down before without the intention of shooting back a counterargument. This time, he simply fears for the man’s wellbeing, which makes it all so much odder. “I’ll finish my essay and stay out of your _—_  big ass hair.”

Of course, the strange, soft smile that’d appeared on Jefferson’s face dies down when Hamilton opens his big mouth again:

“Must’ve been some party down there in lame ass Virginia to get you to neglect your outfit like that. Looks like Madison just dragged you fresh out of bed this morning and shoved you in the back of the car.”

Jefferson says nothing, just turns around and drops a sugar cube in each steaming mug.

Hamilton doesn’t shut up. “Also, I was thinking about it for a while, and it’s very unlike you to drink. I didn’t know you to go hard like this.” He pauses and his voice takes on a playfully mocking tone, “And _how irresponsible_. Why, Thomas, on the eve of such an important meeting _—_  ”

His words die in his throat when Jefferson thrusts one of the cups out to him, vintage porcelain coaster and all. He’s visibly strung out, jaw clenched.

Hamilton accepts the coffee and takes a hesitant step back as Jefferson returns to the counter to fetch his own cup. He’s inhumanly still for a moment, then leaves the coffee untouched and faces Hamilton again, emptyhanded.

“You know what; I’m gonna take a shower,” he says, trying to keep his voice level. He fails, and his hands shake.

Hamilton feels an impulsive urge to apologize, but he doesn’t exactly know what for.

“Just _—_  I’ll show you your room later. Go work wherever and _—_  just don’t break anything.”

Hamilton nods numbly. He has no clue what to make of the scene before him, no idea how to deal with Thomas Jefferson, nervous and jittery, and wearing a rumpled v-neck no less.

He thanks his lucky stars that Jefferson flees the room before Hamilton gives into that weird, nagging compulsion to hug the man. The very concept that Jefferson had been on the verge of tears is enough to snap Hamilton out of his daze and balance the cup in his still outstretched hand before it clatters to the ground. _Don’t break anything_. Right.

He maneuvers through the seemingly endless apartment before finding a spot akin to a living room, and deposits the coffee on the pouf beside it. He gets to work, forces the distracting thoughts of Jefferson out of his mind.

It’s all so very simple _—_  type a paragraph, hit enter, type another _—_  until a door creaks open somewhere, and Hamilton knows the peace is over. Unless, of course, Jefferson chooses to vanish into his own bedroom and never show his face again, which might just be preferable.

He does the opposite of that: saunters into the living room in a soft-looking bathrobe, a new pair of sweatpants poking out from the bottom. Of course he couldn’t leave his guest unattended; his southern hospitality was legendary, after all.

“That was rude of me, to leave you like that. My apologies,” he starts, and Hamilton is taken aback by the sincere words, until Jefferson adds, mockingly: “Of course, you must be used to spending nights on the couch by this point, am I right?”

Obnoxiously referencing Hamilton’s front page infidelity scandal, and the loud divorce that followed was a hobby of Jefferson’s, no doubt.

He goes on, motions vaguely down yet another corridor; ignoring Hamilton’s scowl. “I’ll show you your room.”

“Actually, the whole taking the bus home thing is starting to look fucking fantastic.”

“Don’t be a baby.”

“Don’t be an asshole,” Hamilton snaps. The tension thickens and any hope for a peaceful night disperses.

“For fuck’s sake, own up to what you did, Hamilton. You cheated on your wife god knows how many times, and she divorced your lousy ass just as she should’ve done. Least you can do is stop pretending you’re the victim.”

“I’m not pretending _—_  ”

Jefferson uncrosses his arms, pushing himself off the doorframe he’d been leaning against, and takes a step forward towards Hamilton, who launches himself into a sitting position on the couch. He’s ready for a fight, as per usual.

“Then stop getting your panties in a twist every time I call you out.”

Hamilton’s scowl deepens. “All you ever do is call me out. Take some responsibility for your own actions once in a while and stop diverting all the negative attention to me. Sure, I’ve gotten myself into nasty business, but in no way does that give you the right to exploit my misdeeds and paint yourself as the savior of this country. You don’t deserve that, Jefferson, none of it.”

“I’ve worked just as hard as you to get where I am right now.”

“Oh, sure,” Hamilton snorts. He’s on his feet now, voice raised and body tensed. His subconscious doesn’t recognize the concept of a fight or flight response _—_  it’s just fight; all day, every day. “Must’ve been _so_ hard comfortably living off your family money like some goddamn two-faced, velvet wearing leech.”

Jefferson’s bark of laughter is humorless, and downright condescending. “Was it fun? Sucking dick left and right to get to the top? To become Washington’s fucking lapdog? Why, I bet you even _—_  ”

“Don’t finish that sentence if you know what’s good for you,” Hamilton spits, and, oh, now it’s getting fun.

Jefferson fakes offense, fluttering a hand up to his heart. “My, oh, my, is Alexander Hamilton threatening me in my very own house? Shocking. Appalling manners. I’d call the tabloids but it’s nothing the public doesn’t already know about you.”

“”Course you’d know about getting your name smeared in the press. Who knows how many bullshit escapades you’ve had your cronies cover up? _—_  If I didn’t see the state you were in with my own two eyes I wouldn’t have believed shit. But wait ‘til the world hears about the drinking. Rumors just grow, my dear Mr. Secretary.”

Jefferson’s whole demeanor changes, the glint in his eyes vanishing in an instant. Hamilton takes that as a victory.

“See? Drag me all you want, but don’t you think for a moment that I don’t have anything on you to retaliate with.”

He leans over to the couch and snaps his laptop shut, cramming it back into his backpack, ignoring the loose papers he crumples in the process. He can iron them out back at his place, for all he cares, the sooner he gets Jefferson out of his sight the better.

“Clearly, I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he spits, in case his intentions weren’t plain enough.

Hamilton pushes past Jefferson, shoving him to the side as he passes through the door, slinging his bag over one shoulder.

He’s not that bad of a person, hasn’t made _that_ many condemnable mistakes. Point being, he doesn’t deserve to be treated like shit by Thomas Jefferson of all people, doesn’t need the guy rubbing his faults in his face on a night that was supposed to be centered around organizing a proverbial ceasefire.

He’s halfway down some corridor or another, probably one wrong turn from getting hopelessly lost, when Jefferson’s voice rings out from behind, strained and resigned. “Hamilton, wait.”

Hamilton stops and turns.

Jefferson is worrying the frayed end of one of his bathrobe ties. He takes a slow breath and meets Hamilton’s eyes. His voice is quiet when he speaks:

“Yesterday was four years since Martha died. I got nostalgic, then I got low, opened a bottle of wine, and by the time it was empty I had no self-control left to stop myself from opening another. Is that what you wanted to hear?” There’s no venom in his voice, instead it’s jarringly detached; almost echoes in the quiet space. “If you’re going to sell crap about me to the papers you may as well know the whole story, right?”

Hamilton stays silent. It’s not guilt that washes over him at Jefferson’s admission, it’s something else entirely. But he says nothing, just listens to Jefferson continue.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned the whole thing with your wife. I was projecting,” he says, then tries to rearrange his expression back to his trademark grin. He makes it halfway between that and exhausted disarray. “I’ll save the insults for the Congress floor.”

Naturally, Hamilton doesn’t take the joke well. “Actually, you should keep Eliza’s name, and our private affairs permanently out of your vocabulary. Forget about it completely, stay out of it for good. Focus on your own shit.”

“Oh, but where’s the fun in that?” Jefferson drawls, and that is apparently the final straw.

Hamilton drops his backpack to the floor and advances on Jefferson, stopping no less than a foot away. He glares up at him with all the hatred he can muster.

“Fun? This is about _fun_ for you?” he demands. “I was never going to sell you out to the press, you absolute bastard, you didn’t even need to defend yourself with that sob story. But now I’m considering it, because apparently all heartbreak is worth to you is a good laugh.”

Jefferson’s sneer twists into something uglier. “Don’t compare what happened to my wife to your deliberately destroyed relationship. I loved Martha. And _you_   _—_ Eliza leaves the house for one day and you bring home some whore, and it keeps going on for god knows how long behind your wife’s back. I can’t even imagine how fucking disrespectful you’d have to be, how little you care about your family to hurt them like that.”

Hamilton just barely refrains from punching him. “There you go again _—_  villainizing me. Listen to yourself for once. Can you not see how pathetic this is: making yourself out to be the poor, misunderstood widower? Get over yourself, Jefferson, we all have skeletons in the closet.”

“You dug your own grave, Hamilton,” Jefferson spits. “You caused the whole fucking problem for yourself and you can’t swallow your pride enough to get it through your thick skull. I didn’t ask for anything that’s happened to me.”

“None of us ever do.”

Jefferson throws his arms up. “The fuck, Hamilton. It’s like arguing with a brick wall. You don’t fucking get it.” He pauses and closes his eyes. “You know, I should be home in Monticello with my girls, not here listening to your whining. You’re right, maybe you _should_ go.”

Hamilton crosses his arms. “Maybe I should. I barely remember what the point of this meeting was supposed to be in the first place. You’re just so good at redirecting attention to less pressing matters.”

“It was to establish a semblance of peace between our parties,” Jefferson obliges him with a legitimate answer. “Madison’s idea. And he scampered off, so it’s no wonder we’re in this position.”

“We can’t be left to our own devices,” Hamilton laughs to himself. “How sad is that? We need adult supervision.”

And just like that, the anger simmers down. Sheer exhaustion falls over them both, minds no longer fueled by the adrenaline of arguing.

Jefferson undoes and reties the robe, biting down on the inside of his cheek to swallow down any remaining biting remarks. He’s fucking tired: hadn’t slept for over a day, save the few hours of drunken unconsciousness. He realizes he left his glasses in the bathroom, the world is fuzzy, and he wants nothing more than to lead Hamilton to his damn guest bedroom and retire for a day or two: burrow into his covers and wallow in self-pity.

Hamilton keeps talking, apparently. “Why did Madison go?”

“Hell if I know.”

Hamilton doesn’t buy the blatant lie. “Ha, sure. He straight up ditched us. C’mon, tell me why he wanted us alone. Is this an assassination plot? Make me think I’m safe for the night, then, BAM, you strangle me in my sleep?”

Jefferson cocks his head. “If we were gonna kill you, doin’ it together would’ve been a whole lot easier.”

Hamilton huffs a laugh, which transforms into a frown almost immediately. “Stop changing the subject, jackass.”

Jefferson clenches his jaw, and wordlessly turns on his heel, stalking across the hall. Hamilton watches him for a few moments before pursuing.

“What are _—_  ?”

“Room’s this way,” Jefferson interrupts, before Hamilton even has a chance to voice his question.

He stops in front of an exceptionally ordinary door, turns the knob and graciously holds it open for Hamilton, motioning grandly.

“Sweet dreams, Hamilton. There’s a bathroom two doors down, fresh towels on the shelf beneath the sink. Good night.”

Jefferson smiles, flashing his pearly whites, and it’s all spite. With that, he relinquishes his grip on the doorknob and starts to make his way back in the direction they’d come from.

Acting on impulse, Hamilton grabs his wrist before he can stray too far.

Jefferson’s skin is surprisingly cold, Hamilton lets himself note. All Jefferson does is freeze in his steps, before turning to glare at Hamilton’s clinging hand, then up at the man himself.

“Let go.”

“What are you hiding? What is this?”

Jefferson’s patience finally wears out, and he growls, “Let go of me, Hamilton.”

As expected, Hamilton’s grip only tightens. “Just tell me. I’m a curious kind of guy; it’s gonna keep me up all night if you don’t spill the beans. He got a secret lady friend out of town he had to visit? He’s quitting politics and didn’t wanna be in the same room as us when we talked shop? He got sick of me during the drive and walked out? Or did he _—_  ”

Jefferson groans. “James thought _—_  he was under the obviously mistaken impression that, somehow, if he left us alone, just the two of us, we would miraculously work out our differences and something would _click_.” At the last word, Jefferson makes air quotes with his free hand. Hamilton keeps his hold on the other. “That we would sort our shit out, and you would stop hating me.”

Jefferson is rambling, and it’s disquieting enough for Hamilton to impulsively interrupt. “I don’t hate you.”

Silence falls over the corridor, punctuated only by soft breaths. It goes on until Jefferson’s breath hitches.

There’s a strange rawness to his voice when he mutters back, “Don’t say that.”

Hamilton, confused, finally lets go of Jefferson’s wrist and turns to face him fully. “I don’t hate you, Thomas,” he repeats, and he means it.

The tension thickens until it’s unbearable, and Jefferson grinds his teeth together, makes a helpless keening sound in the back of his throat, then he can’t hold back anymore. And he doesn’t _—_  he surges forward and tugs Hamilton towards him, leans down and covers his lips with his own.

Hamilton falls still in shock, or whatever the hell he finds himself feeling. Jefferson’s hands are shaking, cupping Hamilton’s jaw to keep him close, to keep him from trying to run away again.

It takes an unholy amount of time for Hamilton to kiss back, press himself closer, backing Jefferson towards the wall, and drag his hands over Jefferson’s hips to hold him in place.

They break for breath, they meet again for small, chaste kisses; Jefferson lets his lips part, allows Hamilton to press him further into the wall at his back, to take control. And that does it, really, induces the downward wave of heat: Hamilton swears into the kiss, a muffled _fuck_ , and shuts off any semblance of rational thought that was still up and running.

It’s when Jefferson’s robe is undone, and Hamilton’s hands are ghosting over his bare stomach, that Jefferson pulls back, practically pushing Hamilton away.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, essentially breathless. “You don’t _—_  ”

Hamilton’s had enough of treading lightly. “I do. I really do. I have _—_  for so long. Stop talking and fucking _kiss me_.”

There’s no need for him to ask twice: Jefferson lets out an wholly relieved almost-sob and crashes their mouths back together, Hamilton responding instantly and eagerly. Hamilton’s not even sure what he wants to do first _—_  get the damned robe off, tangle his fingers in Jefferson’s hair, or just relinquish control and go where Jefferson’s hands lead him.

He does it all at once, or so it seems, intuitively navigating them both to the still open guest bedroom.

Jefferson shakes his head, his curls bouncing against Hamilton’s temples with their proximity. “Not there.”

Hamilton bites at Jefferson’s bottom lip. “There’s a perfectly fine bed in there, why not?” He pauses. “Unless you were gonna stick me in a room with no bed, in which case you’re even more of a heartless brute than I’d thought.”

Jefferson actually, literally covers Hamilton’s mouth with his palm, leaning down to kiss bruises into the skin of his neck. “Believe me when I say my bed is infinitely better.”

No force on Earth can stop Hamilton from arching his back; Jefferson’s breath hot against his ear, lips dragging across his jaw.

“Okay. Okay, okay, okay,” he breathes, “I believe you. One hundred percent. Trust you wholeheartedly. Just _—_  please _—_  stop bragging about the bed and fuck me into it, okay?”

Again, it doesn’t take a lot of convincing for Jefferson to grab Hamilton’s arm, and greedily drag him in the desired direction. He gets what he wants; they both do.

By the time Jefferson kicks the bedroom door open with his heel, and pushes Hamilton inside, half their clothes are off and scattered, leaving a trail in their wake. Jefferson navigates faultlessly in the dark, familiar with the room despite the small amount of time he spends there.

Hamilton is backed up to the bed until he feels the mattress pressing into the back of his thighs, and all it takes is a push to send him sprawling, Jefferson wasting no time, following suit and straddling Hamilton’s hips.

Jefferson leans over him, a hand on either side of Hamilton’s head, and flashes a smirk. “So, what was that you said? ‘ _For so long’_? You wanna tell me exactly how long you’ve wanted to do this?”

Hamilton tries to kick out at him, but Jefferson’s hands on his hips render him immobile, as Jefferson ducks down and undoes Hamilton’s zipper with his teeth. It’s a fucking cliché and Hamilton should not physically feel himself growing harder in reaction. He can barely choke out his response. “You do _not_ get to tease me about this. Which one of us was mooning and pining, and no doubt sending me lovey-dovey eyes across Washington’s table? I can’t fucking believe I didn’t see it.”

Jefferson’s head snaps up, tearing his attention away from the waistband of Hamilton’s boxers he’d been playing with. “Don’t talk about Washington with my hand on your dick.”

“Your hand is not on my dick yet.”

“Are you actually rushing me? Do you _want_ my hand on your dick?”

Hamilton thrusts his hips into empty air and screws his eyes shut. “Yes, fuck yes. Your hand, mouth, anything, just _—_  please.”

“Wouldya look at that,” Jefferson drawls, leaning back down to his area of interest, pretending he wasn’t just achingly eager to get the show started, “Alexander Hamilton asking nicely.”

He pulls back the waistband and watches Hamilton’s cock spring free; then meets his eyes and waits for Hamilton to start begging _—_  because he will, it’s inevitable. He’s impatient, he’s desperate, he needs  _—_

“Yeah, I’m not gonna ask nicely anymore. You get started or I’m gonna take the damn bus home.”

“Sure you are.”

“Jefferson, if you don’t _—_  ”

 “Ask nicely.”

“I am going to physically kick your ass.”

Jefferson drags his lips across Hamilton’s inner thighs, marking milestones with kisses. His legs are spread, waiting to accommodate, and Jefferson’s amazed at his own self-restraint. “Very good things come to those who wait. Tell me what you want. Nicely.”

Hamilton grits his teeth. “Fuck you.”

“Fuck me? I thought the idea was to fuck you.”

“Please _—_  ” Hamilton whines.

“Please, what?”

“Please, pretty please with a cherry on top, would you suck my dick?”

Jefferson smiles, none too genuinely. “Look how easy that was.”

Wrapping one hand around the base, he takes Hamilton into his mouth, using his free arm to keep Hamilton’s hips pinned to the bed when he tries to buck them upwards. Jefferson knows he’s done enough to debase himself already, but he’d be damned if he choked.

Hamilton’s broken groan, torn between pleasure and desperate relief, is loud enough to wake the dead, four states over; yet it’s nothing compared to the sounds he makes when he finally comes, rasping gasps intermingled with Jefferson’s name, over and over like a wretched prayer. And later, his enthusiasm to reciprocate is met with a teasing laugh from Jefferson, and a reprise of the comment he’d previously made about Hamilton sucking off all of Congress.

Hamilton takes offense, and Jefferson consoles him, hand wrapped tight in his hair. “How did you not take that as a compliment? You’re so good for me. I can only imagine where you learned that _—_  ”

He breaks off with a strangled cry as Hamilton drags his teeth over the tip of his length.

And he fails to stifle another shout when his back arches and he spills, Hamilton swallowing every drop, and stroking him down.

Hamilton wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, tucking back the strands of hair that’d fallen in his face. Jefferson, breathing heavily, head dropped back into the pillow, keeps his eyes squeezed shut, and says nothing. Hamilton takes it as an invitation to crawl to the vacant space beside him and claim a spot for the night. Jefferson doesn’t seem to mind (or notice) the action.

There’s no semblance of passing time _—_  could be hours, minutes _—_  just a silent agreement, before they’re on each other again, lips on lips, fingers pressing bruises into the other’s skin. Hamilton takes the lead, greedy for control over the situation, over Jefferson, and sinks down, rides Jefferson until he’s too fucked-out to gasp anything other than his name.

There’s no talking, later, no discussion. They don’t touch as they fall asleep, the circumstances too new and too intimate. Jefferson’s breaths even out first, and Hamilton tries to sleep, tries to close his eyes and shut his brain down; watches the rise and fall of Jefferson’s chest until he too drifts off.

Of course, Hamilton wakes up first, because sleeping in, or sleeping at all, is a foreign concept. And it’s a grand surprise when he wakes with Jefferson’s arm slung over his waist, Jefferson’s hair tickling the back of his neck. Fucking spooning with Thomas Jefferson.

He prays no one ever finds out.

Hamilton pries himself free and pads across the room (bless the regulated temperature in the apartment) to the pants he’d lost by the door. He fishes his phone out of his pocket and unlocks it, pauses for a moment to look around for his shirt. It’s nowhere to be seen.

Hardly past seven in the morning, still dark outside, fucking freezing, two missed calls from Mulligan and an unintelligible text from Laurens consisting solely of emojis.

He trips over the edge of the rug on his way back to the bed and stumbles, blindly reaching out to grasp the bedpost to catch himself. The entire bedframe shakes despite his small build, and Jefferson lurches awake. Light sleeper, Hamilton notes.

Their greetings overlap: Hamilton’s cheery, “Good morning!” and Jefferson’s simultaneous, groggy, “What the fuck’re you doin’, Hamilton?”

“I went to find my phone. I found my pants, but not my shirt. Or my fucking socks. I’d go find them if I knew where to look. But I’d just get lost.”

Jefferson lets his head fall back onto the pillow. There’s something ethereal about his hair, and how even after an active night and restless sleep, it remained impeccable. “I’ll draw you up a map later.”

“That’s so unimpressive,” Hamilton starts, hopping onto the bed far too energetically for a man his age at this hour in the morning. “I’d have expected a Google maps outline of the place. 3D visual tour.”

“You always talk this much at ass o’clock in the morning?” Jefferson complains, and Hamilton shoots him a bored look, to which Jefferson adds: “Yeah, this isn’t gonna work.”

“Aw, why?” Hamilton fake-whines, and throws himself backwards across the bed, holding his phone over his face with both hands and scrolling through some app or another.

“Everyone needs peace and quiet at some point in the day and, let’s face it, you’re the opposite.”

He’s not sure if Hamilton hears the accusation, busy as he is frowning at his screen. Jefferson doesn’t exactly care enough to repeat himself.

But then, Hamilton’s eyebrows furrow deeper and he props himself up on one elbow and stares down at Jefferson from across the bed.

“What did you mean, _this_?”

“What, _this_?”

Hamilton huffs, as if it wasn't obvious enough yet. “You said, _this isn’t gonna work_. What isn’t gonna work?”

The unspoken question hangs in the air.

Jefferson’s tone is almost timid when he finally asks, “What do you want this to be?”

“Hey, we spent an entire goddamn night in one bed and neither of us killed the other. I’m willing to assume that spells success. At least initial success; so there’s no harm in giving it a go. We’ll see,” Hamilton tries to emanate reassurance, because Jefferson looks like he’s about to crumble and it’s weird, but it’s hard enough when he himself isn’t sure where they’re headed.

He offers Jefferson a small smile and Jefferson reciprocates, then pulls his covers to the side and leans over to his phone, refreshing the weather app and jotting down the outdoor temperature.

Hamilton stares, unimpressed. “Weird kinks and all,” he says, mostly a promise he makes to himself.

In an entirely unsurprising turn of events, before the clock even strikes eight, they’re grabbing at each other again, quite literally incapable of keeping their hands to themselves.

“I had no idea you’d be up for round two so quickly, Alexander.”

Hamilton looks up, tilts his head in contempt. “Round two was at, like, three in the morning. This is round three or four, depending on your timeline.” And he goes back to kissing his way down Jefferson’s chest.

And that’s more or less the position Madison finds them in; cleverly having used his spare key to the apartment to get a firsthand account of the transpired events -- Hamilton, dazed and panting, with his head on Jefferson’s chest, and Jefferson with a hand in his hair, sweaty and tangled.

He thinks he’s sneaky, probably, but Jefferson knows him too well, sticks up his middle finger at Madison through the crack in the half-opened door. Hamilton misses the whole exchange, too blissed out to care.

And the two of them, Hamilton and Jefferson, think they’re vague __—__ secretive, even _—_ about the whole thing. So, it’s a shock to them, but literally no one else, when they walk into a meeting a week later, and are met with Washington’s disappointed: “Try to look less happily fucked, Hamilton, you’re scaring the interns.”

Hamilton pales, and Jefferson snorts in thinly veiled amusement.

And James Madison swears he had nothing to do with any of it.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> • what is historical correctness  
> • sorry for lowkey woobifying that fucker jefferson  
> • i love garbage ?  
> • basically what i was trying to insinuate is that tjeffs was head over heels for hammy and used Anger to mask his heart eyes ya feel


End file.
